Fossil

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National Poem Writing Month 2018 Day#23: Today…

Kate Greenstreet’s poetry is spare, but gives a very palpable sense of being spoken aloud – it reads like spoken language sounds. In our interview with her, she underscores this, stating that “when you hear it, you write it down.” Today, we challenge you to honor this idea with a poem based in sound.



 

Al…mooh…nee…ummm…bartanwalla

The feriwalas doesn’t call like this anymore these days;

I haven’t heard him for long.

Last time I saw him after hearing his voice was few months, or it might be few years.

When I was small, of eleven or twelve, his call used to create a stir in the

neighborhood in the lazy summer noons or in the pensive winter noons. 

Al…mooooh…neeee…ummmm…bartanwalla

The housewives, the old women used to wait for this Pied Piper call of the aluminum

utensils feriwala, a man in his early thirties or late twenties, no one knows his age.

Some used to says he’s not younger; the sun, the heat, the walking down aged him;

some used to defend this saying he was much older otherwise he can call like that or

can’t make such bargains, such transactions to keep his customers happy & loyal to him;

experience of a summation of a number of years he had they used to say.

Al…moo…nee…umm…bartanwalla

With time his call become short; his voice fall down not reaching the crescendo

like it used to do in those years, long time ago again not, just another time you can say.

He used to have this hanging bag on his shoulder and a wicker basket on his head,

full of lots of utensils of varied types and varied sizes, all in aluminum and nothing else.

First, the bag becomes light then it vanishes; the wicker basket also started losing the

weight turning a wicker basket of few utensils.

Almunium…(no…let’s say in his way or let’s try…from low to high…)

Allll….moooooh…..neeee….ummmm…bartanwalla

Has lost like many other things nowadays following the rule dictated by the time.

Now we like the peeps of the microwave, not the flame of the gas to cook or warm our

meals, dishes, food; online or shop we visit to buy the utensils for that.

But, last time, when I heard him I ride on the time machine back to my childhood summer

days when there were vacations, there were books and there was the kingdom where

I was the king living showing thumb to all the stress and tensions of the life.

All…moo…nee…umm…bartanwalla…

–xx–

#Feriwala: Travelling tradesman selling different types but a specific category of items or products. In this poem, it is the tradesman selling only aluminum utensils.

#Bartanwalla: In free translation, the man who sale utensils.

 

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Published by Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.

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